AT PRECISELY 5:15 a.m. the door of the house creakedopen, just as it had done every day for the past seventy years. An old man,thin and frail, came slowly down the stairs, stepping carefully over a doglying at the top of the stairs."I see you're there," he said as he approached thegate, key at the ready, unlocking the small padlock that kept it locked atnight and stepped out onto the street.His face was alive and alert from a full night'srest, his longish hair freshly combed. His blue guayabera matched thecerulean patches of sky that strained to emerge from behind the grey rain clouds hanging with low, fickle uncertainty over the early August morning.He wore dark blue, pin striped trousers, khaki-colored socks and a pair of comfortable-looking shoes made, he said, from ostrich skin. A gift from his grand-nephew.Clay-colored robins and tropical mockingbirds competed with geckos and distant barking dogs to be the first to greet the silent breaking dawn.The streets were empty, except for parked cars and a few dogs strutting about in arrogant defiance of the city council's stray dog eradication campaign."Over there was where Mr. Young lived," he said,pointing to a vacant lot overtaken by bush and high grass directly acrossfrom his house, "he brought me home from the Palace Theatre after the 1931hurricane." "And two of Mr. Turton's houses were there." The Turton houses were stilldistinguishable by their vivid yellow blinds.As he turned the corner unto North Front Street hekept pointing out where houses of a bygone era once stood and who lived orworked in them.A concrete public latrine hung over the river wherea wooden one once stood. A tourism minister had planned on removing all public latrines but he had put a stop to that plan.His gait was slow and slightly unsteady. The street was wavy and uneven andhe didn't want to risk stumbling on a ridge in the street and falling. At ninety-one years it would be difficult for him to get up without something to holdonto."Over here was the gentleman's club called Vida Alegre with the hostesseswho were imported from Central America," he said pointing to the left hand side of NorthFront Street. He himself had never been inside the club, of course. Or any clubfor that matter.He pointed intently and gestured. But there was nothing to see. Just empty spaces.It didn't matter. He could still see them clearly in his mind's eye, just as if they were there. Nothing distracted him as he resurrected and reconstructed buildings and people from his prodigious past.He stopped in front of the Turton building, a shabby white two-storey concrete edifice at the edge of the Haulover Creek built by a Mexican contractor after the 1931 hurricane. The 1931 hurricane was a reference point. Things occurred before the 1931 hurricane or after it.He pointed out where his office used to be and where Mr. Turton's used to be. On the verandah of the building overlooking North Front Street was where the late Eddie Austin, his rotund beloved Sancho Panza, had educated him on politics in British Honduras and unionism.As he approached Holy Redeemer Cathedral one of the parishioners obviously recognizing him from a distance walked up to him. He stuck out his hand forcefully and announced, "I am George Price and you are?"On the top of the Catholic Presbytery, in the time of the English Jesuits, before Missouri Province took over, there used to be an observatory. The Jesuits conducted some kind of experiments there and explosions used to go off around midday."And, oh, there were mango trees over there."The priest has just begun the 5:30 a.m. Mass."Follow me," he said, going behind the last of the four pews in the tiny chapel."You can sit there and this is where I usually sit," he said in a voice clearly audible to the fifteen person congregation. He had not lost the mischievous, playful habit of makingutterances suddenly, loudly in the middle of formal ceremonies and official events.A full fifteen seconds before the priest reached that part of the ritual where Holy Communion was administered, he darted from his seat and stood waiting, the first in line to receive the sacrament. He did move more quickly over smooth surfaces."I do it," he said later in response to a question, "to keep the Mass moving, otherwise people will just wait there and don't want to move." He liked to keep things moving along.Two plates had already been set out on the plain dining room table at the house on Pickstock Street in preparation for breakfast; "a simple repast" as he preferred to call it.He produced a pack of bread, the red lettering on the plastic read "Kee's bakery". >From a very small refrigerator he took out cheddar cheese. This block was imported. On the last occasion he had been boasting about his local cheese from Benque Viejo del Carmen.He doled out two slices of bread onto each plate as if he were dealing cards and served two pieces of cheese each. Rain water at room temperature was poured into two glasses. Finally, two chilled bananas were handed out.He had recently stopped drinking coffee, disgusted after finding four dead cockroaches in his white electric kettle. Through mouthfuls of dry bread and cheese heresponded that he remembered the letter of October 1959 from the five partymembers in El Cayo, proposing a new structure for the party. "They wanted topush me aside and take over the party but I saw through it right away."The plates were wiped clean with a kitchen towel and restored to their place on a side table. There was no kitchen sink. When the plates needed washing they would be washed in the bathroom sink.Unmarried. Childless. Reclusive. His Spartan lifestyle was of course legendary. He had never owned a television set, a record player, a stove or kitchen cabinet; he seemed like a kind of living human anachronism.He pulled open each drawer in his chest of drawers revealing the few items of clothing he possessed. The old shoulder-slung travel bag he used as prime minister stood in a corner. He deftly applied a bit of wax to free the seized up zipper and dug around inside with a childlike anticipation to see what he could find.To him, heaven was a state of happiness; having knowledge of all things. Yes, he wanted to go to heaven but "No" he wasn't sure he was assured a place. "One can never be sure," he said. It required an almost reckless leap of imaginationto see this pious, enfeebled, simple man in the role of the uncompromising,inflexible firebrand he once was; "the soldier without a gun" as hereferred to himself.But for the facts, it was difficult to see him as apolitical extremist and one of the most strident opponents of colonialismin the Caribbean.Then his eyes lit up as she walked in announcedthrough the front door. "Excuse me for a moment," he said as he got up to meet her, arms outstretched. "You are the one I love," he said reassuringly, as he swept her into his arms.~~~~~~~

Godfrey Smith

Re: The Father of Belize- George Price
[Re: Marty]
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